


Human

by Aimryax



Category: Call of Duty (Video Games), Call of Duty: Modern Warfare (2019)
Genre: Bittersweet, Character Study, Gen, One Shot, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 18:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aimryax/pseuds/Aimryax
Summary: “Her magnetic true north is that she’s going to fight in a way that doesn’t diminish her own humanity,” Kurosaki says. “If that means, ‘I lose because I’m not willing to resort to whatever tactics are necessary, then so be it, I lose. Because if I reduce my own sense of humanity in order to win, then there’s nothing left to fight for.’ That’s a big driver of what defines her.”





	Human

**Author's Note:**

> Best girl in the series now I got the first fanart, edit AND fanfic for Farah wuddup.
> 
> As always thanks for @llanxeotis for the beta/proofread.

It was hot—_burning_. Short breaths even, with the loose shirt letting new wounds breath out.

But it was overriding her; the sticky sensation of the sweat tickling down on mostly exposed skin forced shivers down her spine. An arm shook too much as legs forced themselves to stand and bend her head down under the gushing tap, the coldest water—which could be provided—hitting burning skin.

The water fell down on Farah’s shirt and began soaking, seeing as it’s already a loss-loss; she unbraided her hair, feeling less tension in at least one area.

Shaky; like Ice colliding with fire, anything was better than the suffocating feeling on everything falling on unguarded shoulders, almost like a reset. Wet breaths forced themselves out of Farah, almost gasping for air as if she were struggling to breathe.

Maybe that was the case, or maybe it wasn’t.

Death was not a stranger to the Commander; and she was no stranger to it either. Where she witnessed its own handiwork of the tragedy in a crash more than she could bother to count, where it advanced with her whether it was on her heels or she were on its own heels.

After all, Farah was taken as its apprentice the moment she saw the reddest of shades plastering her father’s cold body. 

What was told to her is that death feels like a cold gust, an abomination of cruelness on their side of brothers and sisters in arm, taking away lives as it walks among them with seemingly no judgement.

It angered some, when Farah would need to hold back someone breaking down; who wanted to lunge back to get their friend who is undoubtedly dead. Frantic screams met with stern ones to cease this at once–which would be the final nail to the coffin to feel the body against her own break down in mental agony.

But it also numbed some, where she saw soldiers looking at the disfigured remains of what used to be a person; with a completely blank expression and a monotonic voice, where they seemed irritated more then anything.

Farah felt she was neither. The man who died, who was leaning against her, limping in pain at the wounds, despite her distraught screams for a medic that she knew would never be sufficient—_promises_ of safety and recovery broken by a single gust of air as that body went completely limp on the ground. A sudden intrusion yet perfectly scheduled.

The fall of that lone survivor of an explosion had marked everyone dead. Farah held it off until they patched her up and cleaned up. Then she broke.

Her tired body gave out as it fell back and sat upright on the stone ground; her body was forced to calm down. Her head was much lighter then the overwhelmed state of mind she was sent into.

This doesn’t happen often, but at some point, seeing the lifeless eyes of growing innocence tend to make this happen.

She wonders how it feels to be numb; to live without the constant pain of having to deliver the news of lessening in numbers, the news of a lost member that were often met with denial and grief against death’s plan.

But Farah often finds her answer in the skin that was still heated—_igniting_ after the water, the answer that resided in the surprisingly calm faces that were supposed to scream and mourn, sombre faces that smiled upon the Commander as they thanked her and found peace with the thought that their child did not die in vain.

Even if Farah objected to said statement.

Where the answer resided in bloodshot brown eyes and hitched breaths, where tears mixed with the water for the people she served with and honoured their stay with the living, making a difference no matter how small it is.

Death was not her enemy, for her heart beat harder than anything when it was close by, where the supposedly cold aura felt that it was pushing her forward, not to the death of a human,

But to the spirit of a soldier.

With every fall of a brother or sister in arms, she felt the stabbing pain of the loss of it, which made her shake, leaving a lasting effect on her, leaving a scar on her heart.

Where her heart ached for them yet gave her strength to stand her ground.

It reminded Farah of what she’s fighting for, she was not fighting in bloodthirst for revenge, neither in grief—she was fighting for a cause she truly believed in within every inch of the lightning inside of her.

As with every step she took, death did not follow; but accompanied her in defence, the surge of it sending her full force with defiance to anything in front of her.

Defiance in the name of humanity.

The day she was promoted to Commander she had lead multiple forces; defence, liberation or offence. She walked victorious, and she walked defeated.

But never she had walked in shame or disappointment, where she refused every single chance presented at crossing the line—she herself lit on fire with a head held up high and determination.

For every step she took, for every life she witnessed fall, her stand was confident and tall as she knew: for every single life lost, there were ten others saved without resorting to brutality.

For every life Farah had accompanied to the afterlife, where weak lips mumbled their thanks to the Commander—no, to their _sister_ who stood up for everything she set up, where strong grip loosened in Farah’s hand; made her who she is.

The prickle at her fierce heart, the tremble of her scarred arms and the emotion of her eyes; were all things she wore on her sleeve for everyone to clearly see. This was not weakness, this was strength and faith, stronger than any win that the enemy could achieve.

And if she dies; she’ll die with her head raised high, honoured to _rebel_ against what is wrong.

They can kill her, but never the defiance that was rooted deep into her.


End file.
